


Ilmarin

by catalectic



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 21:17:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4640532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catalectic/pseuds/catalectic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On Taniquetil, Manwë and Ingwë meet, and learn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ilmarin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sleepless_Malice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/gifts).



The Halls of Ilmarin stood as a sentinel on the lofty peak of Taniquetil. They shone white, unmarked by time, a bright thread of stairs running their way up the mountain to their great silver doors. Terraces circled the sides of the Halls, from which those keen of sight might see any part of Aman, or might look out to the darkened lands beyond. Below, the city of the Minyar perched, made of the same pale stone, dotted with greenery and gilded paths.

In the central hall of this watchtower sat the Lord of the Winds. His throne rose above the marble floor, towards the high ceiling of the hall, and the dome that there encircled it. Manwë might have been taken as marble himself, his skin and hair barely a shade darker than the stone, but his eyes flashed blue, and he wrapped himself in cloth that seemed woven from the sky.

He was still and silent on his high throne, and yet he was not. He was the wind, his mind far-reaching and free, and he wove between the Minyar below, watching them curiously. The birth of the Sun had changed them – now their skin was as golden as their hair, and they were inclined to spend longer hours in their homes when the night fell – but their spirits remained alight, as they had been beneath the trees.

Manwë was drifting on the breeze, up towards the palace, when he felt one of his Maiar tug at his consciousness. He withdrew and folded himself back into his body, and as he settled once more into physical form, he breathed.

“High King Ingwë approaches,” the Maia said with a tilt of the head, his yellow eyes flicking to the doors. Manwë nodded, and the Maia took flight once more, wings snapping him out between columns to the outside air.

The silver doors swung silently open, and a golden-headed figure in simple white robes stepped into the hall. He wore no crown before Manwë, an unneeded sign of respect. Manwë made to greet him, but before he could, the elf spoke.

“My Lord.” Ingwë’s voice rang heavily against carven white stone. Manwë paused. “Is it true, Lord? That you sent Thorondor to Thangorodrim? That you saved the son of Fëanor?”

Manwë inclined his head, and Ingwë let out a sharp breath. He straightened, visibly steeling himself. He could read the tension in every line of Ingwë’s body.

“My lord…” Here, he stopped. The Vala stood, and stepped down from his high seat, pulling his robes about him. As he moved towards Ingwë he could now see that the tension he had read was not fear – or not entirely. The disbelief and anger in Ingwë’s eyes was suddenly apparent. He stopped before Ingwë, and for a long moment, he was silent. Ingwë seemed to heat the air between them with his sparking gaze, his jaw clenching and unclenching, working at the words that would not come out. The silence spun out between them, an almost visible thread. 

Ingwë dropped his gaze, and the tension dissipated in a rush. Once more, he was the gentle elf – the friend – that Manwë knew, only now seemingly held down beneath the weight of his years.

“When I heard the news, I did not believe that it could be true,” Ingwë murmured, his eyes still tracing the patterned marble of the floor. “That this man, that all of these Exiles, should have earned your pity.” His eyes lifted to meet Manwë’s once more.

“How did the people of Alqualondë displease you, my Lord, that you did not save them, too?” His voice was saddened and bitter. Manwë paused for a moment, then sighed. 

“Come, Ingwë,” he said. He turned and swept out a hand before him in invitation, then made for the open archways that led to the terraces. Their measured footsteps echoed through the empty halls, and they did not speak.

Outside, he leaned on the stone balustrade and looked down over the city below, which pressed up against the mountainside, a clinging spatter of white and gold on grey stone, and through habit dived down once more among them as a spirit, bathing in their warmth. 

He returned to his body after long moments to find Ingwë, standing straight and patient beside him, gazing sightlessly down the mountainside.

“You are angry,” he said, uselessly.

“I wish only to understand, my Lord,” Ingwë returned, stiff and formal still.

“I did not send Thorondor because I was angry, or because I have more love for the Exiles than those who remained. The prayer that I heard was heartfelt, but I could not bring myself to fulfil Fingon’s request. I sought to help in a different way.”

“The Teleri must have cried out to you also,” Ingwë said, and Manwë’s heart was pained.

“They did,” he replied, quietly. Ingwë’s fingers tightened into fists as he stared resolutely downwards.

“Then why did you not intervene?” 

Manwë spoke into the wind.

“All of us who were spirits in the Timeless Halls came into Arda for the sake of our Father’s children. We brought the Eldar to Valinor to keep you safe, but we are not your masters. What would you have had us do? Bar Fëanor and his people from leaving? Take their lives in return for the lives lost at the harbour?”

“Yes!” Ingwë turned to him at last, eyes ablaze. “Why should they be allowed to live when innocent people died?”

“Ingwë.” He raised his hand, and clasped Ingwë’s shoulder gently. “ _It is not our place_. Even had I or any of my fellows been able to stop the fighting once it had begun, we are not here in Arda to chart your course for you. Had we intervened to stop the Noldor, or barred them from leaving, we would be acting out the tyranny of which we were accused.”

“The path that Fëanor and his kin took was wrought by fury and revenge. It will bring them to naught but ill, in the end.” Ingwë looked away once more, now towards the harbour, though even his eyes would not make it out from their frigid perch atop the mountain.

Manwë allowed him his silence, contemplating. Ingwë, he knew, had felt the betrayal more keenly than some, not merely as the High King, but as the uncle and granduncle of those who led part of the Noldor away.

Silent time stretched out before them. Manwë lost himself to the ripples and currents of the air as Ingwë dwelled on his thoughts, still somewhat frosted with anger. Eventually, he spoke again.

“There is one thing further that you do not consider, in your wish to abandon Nelyafinwë to his fate.”

“What is that?” Ingwë asked, his fingers still tracing patterns on the chill stone rail.

“Those that died at Alqualondë passed to Námo’s Halls. They will linger there for a time, but they will return. Fëanor and his kin will not have that luxury.”

Ingwë frowned up at him in confusion. “Will they not?”

“Their Oath called down upon them the Everlasting Dark. Should they die without reclaiming the Silmarils, they will have failed to keep this oath, and they will pass not to the Halls, but to the Void.”

Ingwë drew a breath, and was still. He turned away then, and looked out once more at the city. Manwë’s hand dropped from Ingwë’s shoulder, where he had not realised it still sat.

“Do you see now why I felt moved to mercy?” 

Ingwë nodded slowly, and after a long moment, tipped back his head and drank deeply of the rarefied air.

“What they did still angers me,” Ingwë said after a moment. “I fear I am not as wise as you, my Lord.”

“Your wisdom is of a different sort, my friend,” Manwë said, and Ingwë turned fully and smiled up at him. “Elves are present in the world in a different way from my kin, though we may all be tied here until its end.”

He reached out to Ingwë; the touch that met his was warm and firm. He held Ingwë’s hands between them and looked down at them – the Valar did not require touch in the way that seemed necessary to the Eldar. And yet…he took pleasure in this connection. 

“I would never wish you to feel lesser – I have often thought on the ways of the Elves, your lives, your families, and I confess that I have felt…envious.”

Ingwë laughed brightly at this, but at Manwë’s solemn look gave him pause.

“I would not have imagined that one of the Aratar could feel so base an emotion,” he said, half-serious, half-teasing. “Are our ways so different from yours? You have a family, do you not, my Lord?” Manwë tipped his head in contemplation, and considered his answer.

“Not a family,” he said, at last. “The Lady Varda and I complement one another, and so we often look out at the world and work within it in harmony. Marriage does not mean the same to us, as we are all the offspring of our Father’s thoughts. My Lady often goes far into the west, where the light is less and her stars are brightest, and finds much to explore with Nienna – their bond might be considered alike to ours in some ways.”

He was aware, suddenly, that their hands were still clasped. Was this touch still for Ingwë’s benefit? 

“We do not need our bodies in the same way as the Eldar,” he continued, “And I fear that for some of us, this leads us to ignore them and what we might learn through them.” Ingwë’s hands tightened in his.

“Is there so much to learn from a body?” he asked, his eyes searching Manwë’s. 

“Oh, yes,” he said. “To feel what it is to be a true part of the world – not merely a spirit, but a being of flesh – that is a lesson I would gladly learn.” 

They did not speak, then, but neither did they look away, each seeming unable. He felt heavy and grounded, as he never had before. Manwë used their joined hands to draw Ingwë closer, and knew with abrupt clarity what he wished to feel.

The kiss was brief and light, and might have been nothing but a gesture between friends, but for the electricity that crackled in Manwë’s veins. He looked down at Ingwë’s face, open and surprised, his eyes darkened and wide, and he felt like thunder, like a gale rolling down from the peaks, like a storm flashing bright in the evening-time.

It was nothing and everything to lean down again and kiss Ingwë’s lips. One, two soft presses, and then suddenly the elf responded, pressing back up into the kiss. Manwë caught alight. He pressed his hands to Ingwë’s back and felt arms wind around his neck in return. They clung to one another, and every place that they touched sparked along Manwë’s skin. His hands swept up Ingwë’s back and stroked through his hair; he pressed Ingwë back against the balustrade and delved into his mouth, gasping, searching. 

When he pulled back, they were both breathless. He drew Ingwë back in and pressed their foreheads together, unable to look away from the twilight eyes.

“My lord-”

“Ingwë,” Manwë said, his voice a deep and enveloping rumble, “I would have you speak my _name_.” Ingwë breathed deep, and said –

“ _Manwë_.”

Heat rolled through him, sudden and fierce. They were pressed together as close as they could be, but now that he had had a taste, it did not feel like enough. He became aware of a hot press against his thigh, felt an answering pulse curl deep within him, and pushed impossibly closer. This was what he wanted, this was…

Abruptly, Ingwë’s hands pressed against his chest, and he stumbled back a step. Ingwë’s eyes were wide and shocked, and he leaned forwards, breathing deep an heavy, as though he had run from the city to the peak of Taniquetil. Manwë felt chilled.

“My…Manwë, my Lord, I am…I am married, as you know, and I cannot-”

“Ingwë, I understand,” Manwë said, although this was not wholly true, with the taste of the elf still lingering in his mouth, and his heart thudding in his chest. “I see a little better now, the pleasure that elves might take in one another.” This, at least, was undeniable.

“I will return to the city,” Ingwë said with shaking voice. “You have shown me every courtesy and given me answer to every question I brought, and I thank you for your consideration, my Lord.”

Manwë stretched out his hand to touch Ingwë’s cheek once more.

“If I am truly your lord, dear friend, then I would ask one thing of you.”

Ingwë seemed to return to himself, and nodded, straightening to stand tall once more. Manwë smiled.

“Use my name, Ingwë.”

In the elf’s eyes there flickered the darkness that had almost abated, but after a moment, he smiled and nodded, and this time when they turned to leave, it was hand in hand.

Together they returned to the great marble hall. As Ingwë turned towards the open doors, Manwë’s hand tightened momentarily, and he looked back with a questioning glance.

“It is rare that you visit me. I hope that it will be less so in the future.”

Ingwë inclined his head, smiling. 

“I think, my…Manwë,” he said, “that we might both profit from that.” He pulled away then, their fingers skating together. Manwë tightened his hand to a fist, as though to clutch the ghost of that touch close. 

He watched as Ingwë retreated. When the golden head had finally disappeared down the outer stairs, he turned and made his way back up to his seat, and as he settled, he thought of Ingwë’s smiling face. A vestige of that electricity flickered in his belly. 

And if, in the coming days, his spirit found its way to the palace more often than it had before, well…

There was no one to know but him.


End file.
